Using Me As A Muse
by Lady Anatui
Summary: Chox. Friendship is very difficult when it has to occur predominantly over the telephone. A lot has changed since Neil's death, but no one more so than Charlie, who appears to have cut himself off from the world, including women. Knox to the rescue!


_Hey, everyone! Haven't written much fanfiction in a while, but somebody left a review on the original version of this story, and it made me want to work on it again. So to simplify the story, I decided to do a one-shot version. I think the story also lends itself to that format. Sorry for any errors. I haven't edited this properly. Just wanted to post right away._

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed the original story. I like this one better. I hope you do too. (It helps that this one is complete.)_

_DISCLAIMER: I don't own DPS or the song that this story is based on, "Jet Pack" by Eve 6. Fantastic song, you should listen to it. Probably while reading this._

* * *

><p><strong>Using Me As A Muse<strong>

The sign still says "Please limit calls to ten minutes," but I barely take notice of that as I listen to the cold and empty words of one Charlie Dalton, no longer insisting on the ridiculous name Nuwanda.

"It's not really that bad here," he admits begrudgingly, and I hesitate to believe him, quickly considering whether an administrator is listening in on the call.

"Are you sure about that?" I ask, my small smile fading into worry, but I decide to let his statement slide and move on. Maybe, just maybe, he is opening up for the first time in months. "What are your classes like? Have you made any friends?" Charlie's parents moved him to another prestigious school in New England. This one being St. John's Academy in Massachusetts. Not prestigious enough that they wouldn't accept him though.

On the other side of the line, he lets out an exasperated sigh. "Not as difficult as Hellton," he says, "but it's a bore. A couple of the teachers aren't bad." Not bad doesn't mean they're good though. Even so, I'd never expect Charlie to be generous in his assessment of the administration.

"Any friends?" I try again, hoping against hope he'll actually open up.

No surprise. He doesn't.

"Listen," he says, "we've been talking for a while now, and it's getting late." His curfew couldn't possibly be for another hour. It's only six. "I should go." He pauses for a moment before adding as an afterthought, "I'm surprised Hager hasn't scolded you for being on the phone so long," his voice wavering between what I can only assume to be amusement and anxiety.

"All right," I say with hesitation. "When will I talk to you again, Charlie?"

Probably shrugging, he says, "No idea. I'll call when I can. Send the guys my love. Bye, Knoxious."

And he's gone before I can even respond.

Which means he hasn't made any friends and probably doesn't even want to. Not that I blame him. Everything has been hard since Neil. And I get the distinct feeling that it is demonstrably more difficult for him being alone. Exactly why I'm worried about him. I know he can take care of himself, but that doesn't mean a thing if he doesn't want to, and right now, he doesn't seem to care about much of anything, let alone his mental and physical well-being. It certainly doesn't help that he's so damn proud.

I listen to the dial tone for a moment before softly saying, "G'night, Charlie," into the lonely phone and finally place the receiver back on the phone. With a sigh, I push away from the wall to return to my dorm for the night.

* * *

><p>The next time I hear from him, it's nearly two weeks later. I'm not surprised when Mr. Nolan's secretary calls me into her office to say there's a phone call for me, but I am surprised by the exuberance in his voice when he speaks. It takes me a moment to place it.<p>

"Charlie, are you drunk?" I ask, trying to keep my voice down.

He laughs dastardly in response. "Why would I be drunk, Knoxious? Don't you know alcohol's bad for you?" I can't help but smile at that, but my amusement fades quickly as he keeps talking. "Besides, even if I were, I would certainly be better behaved than you," he laughs. "God, I wish I'd seen you trashed and trying to put the moves on Chris." He continues laughing for a moment before silencing himself awkwardly.

"Charlie," I say in a hushed voice, not sure how to best broach the subject of relying on alcohol for emotional support.

"Relax," he quickly responds, "it's not like I stole it. A couple guys went to the store. It's not a big deal." He pauses. "Hey, you wanted me to make friends, right?"

Not exactly the kind of friends I had in mind.

"It is a big deal," I try, but he won't hear it. Besides, it's not like I can force his hand when he's hundreds of miles away.

"Jesus, Knox, a few drinks isn't going to kill me," he snaps, angry now. "Fuck, man, you were the one that wanted to talk to me. I was doing just fine before you called me last week." (That was two weeks ago, but who's counting?) "It's not like I want to waste my time talking you to."

Frustrated, he pause a moment to build up courage. "You're being an idiot," I finally say. "Getting drunk is not a good way to deal with your problems."

"Fuck you," he says, and his voice is getting farther away. "You're the one with fucking problems."

And here I am listening to the dial tone again, until I slam the phone against the wall, not bothering to return it to its proper place before stomping outside into the fresh air.

* * *

><p>Needless to say, he doesn't call for a long time after that. It's nearly a month before I hear from him again, and that's after weeks of attempting to contact him with no response. And not just me. He wouldn't answer calls from Meeks or Pitts either.<p>

Honestly, I had given up hope, and yet somehow I find myself standing right next to the phone with that stupid sign above it, and I can't help but dial the number for St. John's Academy and ask for Charlie Dalton, even if he's just going to hang up on me again.

Then I realize the date. Valentine's Day. I'm supposed to spending today with Chris, but the thought never even crossed my mind. With everything that's happened, she's been so accommodating. She's been there for me. I should be there for her now on what should be a special day.

"What?" Charlie says, suddenly on the other end of the line, already sounding irritated.

And I no longer wonder what she's doing today instead of being with me.

"Don't hang up," I say quickly. "Please."

He doesn't say anything, but I don't hear the dial tone either.

"I just want to talk, Charlie," I add, calming down. "Is it all right if we just talk for a while?"

For a minute, he doesn't respond, but still, he doesn't hang up. At long last, he responds, "Depends. What do you want to talk about?"

I pause. I hadn't quite gotten that far in developing this plan. "Anything," I answer, "anything you want to talk about. I just want to know you're okay."

"I'm fine, Knoxious," he says, and I know he isn't lying when he uses my nickname. "You don't have to worry so much. I'm not fragile."

I beg to differ. I think we're all a little fragile right now. But I ignore it.

"That doesn't stop me from worrying," I say. "You're my best friend, and I'm not letting you go without a fight. Doesn't matter how far away you are."

"I'm fine," he insists. "I don't have time to talk right now. Need to go."

"Why?" I manage to get in before he hangs up. It's the middle of the day. What does he have to do?

"I don't have time to talk," he repeats. "Don't worry, Mom, I'm not going to get into trouble."

Again, he's the one to hang up first. Damn that stupid dial tone.

I'm just glad for the improvement in his mood though.

* * *

><p>Less than a week later though, I am once again called in by Nolan's secretary for a phone call. "Hello?" I say into the phone, hoping against hope that it's him.<p>

It is.

"A girl asked me out yesterday," he says by way of greeting.

His words stun me. Mostly because they're nothing out of the ordinary.

"She cute?" I ask.

"I turned her down."

"What? Really?" I pause. "Was she not cute?"

"She was fine," he says, finally responding to my words. "Good tits, small ass. Nothing special in the face. Not that she needs to have a nice face."

"Then why?" I can't help asking.

"Dunno. Guess I just wasn't interested."

I laugh. "Charlie Dalton is always interested."

"Apparently not," he shrugs. "I mean, I saw her naked and all. Not bad, but again, nothing special."

"Wait," I laugh, "how do you see her naked without a date?"

"She asked me out after we had sex."

That sounds a little more normal.

"Well, almost had sex."

Confused, I insist he explain. "Tell me what happened."

"Snuck off the grounds with a couple guys," he says, "and she was just there at this mom-n-pop restaurant, sitting at the bar. She just came up to me. Nothing to it really. She was probably just lonely. It was Valentine's Day."

I'm reminded of my own girlfriend. A girlfriend I've barely seen in the last month and a half.

"So what happened next? You guys go somewhere?"

"Well, we weren't stripping there on top of the bar," he says, rolling his eyes. He pauses before speaking again. "You missed Valentine's Day."

It takes me a minute to realize what he's referencing.

"You're my best friend," I remind him. "Of course I missed it."

He sound skeptical. "How did Chris take that?"

"Fine. She's very understanding."

He almost laughs. "You know nothing about women, Knoxious," he replies in amusement. "No girl wants to be alone on Valentine's Day. She was lying if she said it was fine."

"Since when are you an expert on women?" I accuse.

"Since always," he says firmly. "I've had seven girlfriends in the last year."

Besides, if you're a Dead Poet, women swoon. And Charlie definitely has the Dead Poet act down.

"Yeah, but none of them lasted longer than two weeks."

"Nobody knows how to live with them," he laughs.

For a moment we wait in amiable silence.

After a while, he sighs and calmly says, "I'm never gonna see you again."

"Of course you are," I say without hesitation. "Besides, there's always summer."

"Oh yeah, my parents would fucking love that, wouldn't they?" he says, sarcasm eating at his voice. "As far as they're concerned, it's your fault I'm so fucking screwed up. They don't want to see any of you, let alone let me out of the house unsupervised. I'll have to spend the whole summer reading. God, I'm so fucked."

And I can't help it. I laugh, and for some reason, he quickly joins me. For no apparent reason. Because it's not even that funny. It's just nice to laugh for the first time in a long time.

When it finally subsides, the grin still won't leave my face, and I add almost desperately, "Yeah, you are. But at least your parents have a bunch of really interesting books about mathematics and accounting."

"Yeah," he smiles, "everything I need to know in order to follow in Dad's footsteps. Because we all know I intend to be the best goddamn banker in New England."

I can't help laughing again, and the conversation subsides into pleasantries for the first time since Neil.

* * *

><p>We've laughed more than once now. But apparently not this time.<p>

"So the bars in this town are shit," he says nonchalantly, as if we're talking about the weather.

"What happened?"

"I was out with the guys again," he explains.

"Yeah."

"So I was getting a drink, and there was this girl there. She had to be at least twenty. Flirting with all the guys in the bar. Total slut."

He's slowly approaching the subject he actually wants to discuss, skirting around it determinedly.

"She smiled at me."

Big deal.

"Not just a normal smile. You know, the smile a girl gives you when she wants to—you know." He hesitates. "On second thought, you probably don't. I don't see Chris giving it up to you any time soon. But that's not the point."

"Let's hope not," I insert quietly.

"The point is, she was smiling at me like that, and..."

He's got me curious now. "And what?"

He heaves a deep sigh before responding. "And I couldn't do it."

"What do you mean? You didn't want to have sex with her?"

"Ugh," he groans, "I don't know why I'm even telling you this. It's not like you've got any experience on the matter."

Ignoring his rudeness, I continue to press the matter. "You didn't want to? Or you tried and you... well, you couldn't do it?" He doesn't say anything, so I know I'm right. "You couldn't have sex with her," I accuse. "You weren't able to get it up." With still no response, I can only murmur, "Oh my God," into the phone in shock.

It's a difficult concept to wrap your head around. Charlie Dalton without sexual urges. I think hell may have frozen over.

I can feel him roll his eyes. "Oh shut up, will you?"

I know I should be teasing him about this, but it doesn't sit right. It's too weird.

* * *

><p>Another month later, and things seem to be progressing.<p>

"So what's going on with you and Chris?" he asks.

I'm not sure what to say for a moment. "I don't know," I admit. "I really don't see her that much. I mean, we're together, but we have school, and I have to sneak out to see her. I'm certainly not getting permission from my parents or Mr. Nolan."

"You miss her?"

"Sometimes," I say, and it's more true than I'd like it to be.

"D'you think you guys have a future together?"

I heave a sigh. "I thought we did, but that was a long time ago. I honestly have no idea now." I pause before trying to change the subject. "Break is almost here. Think you'll be able to have visitors?"

"Maybe. Might have to sneak out to see you."

I let out a small laugh. "Sure. Then we can go to a bar and hit on girls. You know, keep your spirits high."

"Yeah," he agrees.

* * *

><p>I didn't know what I was agreeing to at the time. I didn't realize how bad things had really gotten. Or rather, how different everything had become. Frankly, everything is different. Because here I am at some random bar in Boston with Charlie at my side. Must be a shady place, because there are no questions about us being underage, which surely he already knew.<p>

And this is one of the strangest experiences I have ever had.

"So, uh," I try to say, but the tension is awkward and foreign.

"Yeah," he says, glancing at me over his beer.

We sit in silence, drinking the cheapest beers they have on tap, watching the twenty-something girls in the bar. In clothing that would make Chris gag, these girls act like they couldn't be more comfortable. Every once in a while, Charlie eyes them before turning his attention back to the table and nursing his drink dry. When it's gone, he orders another. He's nervous.

Halfway into my first drink (and at the beginning of Charlie's third), a couple girls approach the table with nervous smiles. Not the ones wearing almost nothing. They look like college girls. One of them is even wearing a shirt in school colors.

"Hey," says the school colors girl with a small smile. "I'm Marsha, and this is my friend Susan. We're from Cambridge, and uh, we were wondering if we could buy you guys another round."

Charlie barely glances at them before looking down at his obviously full glass. "Uh," he begins, looking up at me before making his decision, "sure. Why not?"

The college girls look so excited, and the colors girl runs off to the bar to grab the beers. The friend, Susan, awkwardly sits down next to me.

They're obviously a little drunk—and probably all the braver for it—but Charlie, though also a little tipsy, doesn't seem that interested. Marsha is quickly back and inserts herself between him and myself, getting a little too close for comfort. Charlie seems just as awkward as the girls do.

Marsha easily makes herself at home, the beer giving her more and more courage as time drags on, and she apparently decides on Charlie as the recipient of her attention, allowing her hands to trespass on his. He looks very uncomfortable. "Well, I told him exactly what I thought," she says, continuing a story that neither of us was actually listening to, and she moves one of her hands down from his shoulder toward his abdomen as he takes a sip of his beer. Surprised, he splutters and spills the beer all over himself—and her.

He glances up at me, worry in his eyes, sweat on his brow, and I can't help but smirk at him.

Marsha doesn't know what to make of the situation but appears eager to continue her story while grabbing some napkins to mop up the liquid, her hands too close to his groin for comfort.

And it's time to intervene on his behalf.

"Sorry, ladies," I say, standing up. "I think he's had a bit too much to drink. I need to get him home."

His eyes show me how thankful he is.

* * *

><p>That night, he sneaks me into his parents' house the same way he had snuck out a couple hours previously, through the window. He leads me up the lattice to the second story and gives me a hand up onto the roof before we clamber inside his bedroom window.<p>

The room is dark and still, and there's no noise from inside the house. "Parents are in bed," he explains in a hushed voice. It is almost midnight after all.

Quietly, we collapse onto his double bed, and I heave a sigh of exhaustion. The awkward situation in the bar was somehow tiring. "You're lucky I saved your ass," I snicker, giving him a lopsided smile, not sure how else to approach the subject.

He sends me a sideways glance, still facing the ceiling above, and smiles in return. "Yeah," he agrees.

And since he has decided not to open up, I decide to take a step forward. "So do you not like girls anymore or what?" I ask, letting out a laugh to show him I'm joking.

All he does is shrug, before dragging himself up off the bed to find his pack of cigarettes. In the darkness, he easily lights one up and offers me another. I gladly take it, thankful for something to distract myself. His smoke tucked into the side of his mouth, he drops to his hands and knees, rummaging under the bed. He hits his head and curses before reemerging, a bottle of bourbon in hand.

I cock an eyebrow, now pushed up onto my elbows to see his actions. "You need more?"

With a scoff, he says, "You don't?"

Fair enough.

Taking swigs from the bottle and dropping ash onto the carpet without shame ("I'll clean it up in the morning," he insists), we sit in a silence neither of us wants to break.

I thought he was drunk before, but as I find myself slipping into a drunken stupor, I discover he was not as far gone as I had suspected. Which is good because otherwise neither of us would have been able to make the climb up the lattice. Although his actions are obviously a little slower, he still barely says a thing. Sometimes, I think because we're best friends, that means we actually tell each other less. He keeps so much hidden from me.

With the beer and the bourbon, perhaps there's enough courage in me for a conversation we both know needs to happen.

"How are you doing?" I ask. "I mean, really."

He turns to me, his eyes dilated, and takes a big swig of the bourbon. "Honestly?" he says after, passing the bottle to me. "Shit." Apparently, he's become a master at one-word answers. "I miss Neil."

"So do I," I nod, glancing down at my hands, staring into the open mouth of the bottle. "It'll get better."

"Will it?" he asks, not looking over at me. His words slur slightly. "It doesn't feel like it. Sometimes I think it'll always be this bad. I just—I don't understand. I mean, we're all stuck. Big shoes to fill and all. How could it have been so bad that he had to do that? That he had to kill himself?"

"I don't know."

"I blame everyone," he says. "Mr. Nolan, Hellton, Neil's dad. Even myself. We should have been able to stop him."

"I don't think there's anything we could have done."

"But somehow," he continues, blatantly ignoring my comment, "he doesn't get any of the blame. That's the mercy of being dead, I suppose. Suddenly you're innocent." He takes in a shaky breath. "He was the only one that could have made that choice though. He made the decision and left us alone to deal with our own guilt and self-loathing."

Silently, I look up at him and reach out my empty hand to grab his. "You're not alone, Charlie."

He doesn't say a word. He just upturns his hand, palm facing palm, and interlocks our fingers. And after a moment of silence, he quietly says, "I miss you."

We spent the rest of the night drunkenly passed out in his bed in our boxers, and he denies the conversation in the morning as I rush to get dressed and sneak back out of the house before his parents wake up.

* * *

><p>I don't hear from him for two weeks, and when I do, he's been drinking again. Which seems to be the norm for him now. There's still another couple months before classes start again, and I have to go back for my final year at Hellton. It's funny, the moment we're able to talk more often because we're at home is when he decides he doesn't want to talk. I've tried calling him, but he never answered.<p>

"I just came from a party," he announces. He acts like nothing happened over break, as if that drunken conversation about Neil hadn't happened. "Local frat party. Everyone was trashed. One chick started hitting on me." Girls didn't used to hit on Charlie Dalton. Mostly because they never had the chance. Girls couldn't hit on Charlie Dalton because he hit on them first. "God, she was practically throwing herself at me."

I decide to play along. "Yeah? What'd you do?" I ask.

"I don't know, man," he says slowly, "I just had to get out of there."

Sometimes I wonder.

"So you decided to call me up instead?" I say with a small laugh.

Sometimes I wonder what he's playing at.

The things he says, the way he says them. And while I was there, the subtle glances and soft smiles. Constantly nervous. And of course, I know for a fact that he hasn't been able to get it up with a girl since he left Hellton. Or shown much of any interest in one. At the bar, it seemed more for my sake that he agreed to let those two college girls even sit with us, let alone flirt with him.

He laughs at my question. "Of course, Knoxious," he says with a chuckle.

If it were really just the two of us, nobody else, what would he do? No Chris to get in the way. No parents, no administration, no rules to break or houses to climb. What would happen then?

I smile. "Right, of course."

Would he think I'm crazy for even considering it?

* * *

><p>Three weeks till the new semester, and I'm visiting again. This time with parental permission. Apparently our parents talked, and the Daltons agreed to let me visit. For a whole week.<p>

Even I'm not sure this is a good idea.

He helps me unload my luggage in his room with a small smile, shoving them unceremoniously into a corner that is somehow devoid of mess, unlike the rest of the room. He cleaned for me. "Geez, did you pack enough shit?" he asks, looking over my three bags disdainfully. "What do you think we're gonna be doing in the next week that's going to require this much fresh clothes?"

Surely he can't miss the double entendre.

I shrug. "Honestly, I didn't know what to prepare for."

"God, you're such a woman, Knox," he laughs, knocking shoulders with me as he leaves the room. "Come on, let's go for a walk."

Outside, the weather is brisk and invigorating. His parents have a rather large property on the edge of town, and he shows me around. I don't think either of us is really paying attention to our surroundings though.

Politely, he inquires about my health and family, and I can't help a stoic reply. Everything is, of course, well. As well as things can be. "How's Chris?" he asks slyly as we pass a rather large group of heather plants.

Awkwardly, I shrug. "I haven't really talked to her over break," I admit. "One phone call, and she asked me how I was doing."

He nods before continuing his tour.

* * *

><p>The third evening of my visit, I lie awake silently, sharing his double bed. The previous two nights, he allowed me the bed and slept on the floor. This time, I insisted.<p>

He's asleep. Or pretending to be. I can't tell.

"Hey, Charlie," I try, and he shifts slightly beside me. I take that as meaning that he's listening. And suddenly I don't know what I was planning to say. I hadn't expected him to be awake.

"Uh," I start again, "I, uh, can't sleep."

"Then stop thinking," he grumbles, rolling over to face me, tugging on the blankets as he moves. "I was just about out."

"Sorry," I say, turning to look at him. His eyes are heavy. "I can't stop thinking though. My brain won't turn off."

He closes his eyes and nods sleepily.

"I know it's late," I continue. "I just—can I ask you something? Just a curious question is all."

One eye opens. "Must be nagging at you," he says.

"Charlie," I say, building up the courage, "are you—I mean, do you, um, do you still like girls?"

His other eye opens. "It's not a question of whether I like girls," he says, his face suddenly alert and serious.

Which doesn't answer my real question.

"I've just kind of been wondering lately," I admit quietly. "I know a lot of things have been different since Neil, but uh, what if you didn't like girls anymore?"

"What if what?" he says. "What aren't you saying, Knoxious?"

I can't help but turn away, not sure if I want to say it aloud.

When I don't answer, he says, "Like I said, it's not a question of whether I like girls. That isn't what matters. The question is—I mean, what really matters—is whether I like you."

At least one of us said it.

"Well?" I say, still not turning to him.

I can feel him roll his eyes, and with a firm hand, he takes hold of my shoulder, draws me closer so that I'm facing him, and allows his rough lips to press against mine. I don't protest.

In a moment, he pulls away, saying a quiet, "You're an idiot," before dragging me closer to him. "Now, shut up and go to sleep."

For the first time in a long time, I smile. A real smile.

* * *

><p><em>I have a few ideas for a part two, but nothing substantial yet. Keep on the lookout.<em>

_Thanks for reading! I'd love a review._


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